


Wild

by musicmillennia



Series: Glory and Gore [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Asylums, Athos is a Secret Romantic pass it on, Dark, Domestic Violence, F/M, Insanity, M/M, Multi, Physical Abuse, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 20:23:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4719239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/musicmillennia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apparently the world can't stand it when women defend themselves.</p><p>"At the end of my suffering<br/>there was a door."<br/>-Louise Glück</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wild

**Author's Note:**

> Definitely rarepair fic over here, so thanks for giving this a chance. Oh, and the poem I used is called "The Wild Iris"

White, white, everything’s white, sterile, cold, white-white-white, confining, can’t move, she has to get out, has to _GET OUT—_

 (&)

Her story’s so cliché it makes her sick: a beautiful, gullible young girl who loves her family too much to know what “no” means agrees to marry a man she’s had maybe one actual conversation with, because she’s the youngest of five and her parents don’t know how to tie down their only daughter. The man’s nice at first, then shows his true colors as soon as he finds out that she can’t leave him.

The beautiful, gullible— _foolish_ —young girl grows older and bitter, gets a job where she can snap back at people, where she can turn heads. Detective Bonacieux is what she becomes, skilled at hiding bruises and who calls her family maybe once every few months.

Standing over a body, people look at her and listen to what she has to say. But when that body is her own, not even the next door neighbors bother.

Two years into this life, the murders start. Rapists, cultists, criminals, most wanted, all of them end up eviscerated at the law’s doorstep, sometimes covered in semen as well as blood and flesh, sometimes not. It’s like a twisted form of justice.

Detective Bonacieux knows she needs a vacation when she takes one look at the steady stream and thinks _well at least_ someone’s _trying to make things right._

Time off doesn’t help, though, because she spends all of it pouring over the files of what the press call the “Fleur-de-Lis Murders” due to the fleur-de-lis always left at the scene, usually drawn in blood. Her abuser—not husband, she will _never_ call him husband—spits insults at her, or the occasional slap while she does, because apparently she’s being a lay about.

That’s the first time she consciously thinks about her abuser as a corpse. She goes to bed early that night.

With the detective’s return comes the inference that there’s more than one killer. If she had to guess, Bonacieux would say there were at least two: the one who resorts to brute force and the other who likes to have a bit of finesse.

“And who’s leaving the semen?” asks her assigned partner, Olivier de Something-Something.

“Have the labs still not processed it?” she huffs, “It’s been weeks!”

“I’ll go see myself.”

She likes Olivier; he’s a reliable sort, and certainly has his attractive points. When cases get long, like this one, his brown hair and beard get pleasantly ruffled, making his blue eyes seem twice as colorful. When he speaks, it’s with quiet deliberation, like he knows there’s a power in words and as a result chooses them carefully; there’s a controlled chaos to both his appearance and his desk; he’s a great shot, great to banter with; in short, he’s the exact opposite of her abuser. It’s only natural she’d feel some attraction there.

Never did get the last name, though. He doesn’t like to bring it up for some reason, always insisting that everyone call him Detective Olivier instead of whatever surname he’s got. Detective Bonacieux of all people can respect that.

In his hands, the tests come back within the hour. They’re looking at a René d’Herblay, ex-trauma surgeon who did a tour in the military and was the only survivor of the infamous Savoy Massacre. All in all, plenty of motive for murdering. Not so much the masturbating, though.

“What do you think?” Olivier murmurs as they review the files shoulder to shoulder.

“I think he’s a psycho, so who knows what he’s thinking?” Bonacieux responds.

“You do.”

He always astounds her when he does that: look to her instead of his own opinions first. It’s not something he’s used to doing with anyone else on the force. She used to think he’d just been patronizing her; turns out he actually cares about what she thinks. She tries not to relish in it too much, because then she’ll get used to it. Where would she be if she fell for that?

“These murders,” she says at length, “they’re the killers trying to exact their own form of justice. These victims were all set free by the courts for some reason or other.”

“How poetic,” Olivier deadpans.

“I guess the semen could be a form of revenge, maybe symbolism?”

“It’s not just left on the rapists, though. If anything, it’s sporadic.”

Bonacieux hums. “Well, we can ask him when he’s cuffed to our table.”

Olivier’s mouth quirks and she fails not to smile back.

(&)

Two more years pass. These bastards are slippery ones, but Detective Bonacieux’s caught worse, she’s sure (she hasn’t).

The latest one happens in an alleyway in November. No witnesses, as usual, but something’s different about it. She can feel it.

It dawns on her as she’s studying the corpse for the fourth time. As if he can sense her thoughts, Olivier approaches her from the opposite wall and bumps her shoulder in silent question.

“They’ve just picked up another,” she whispers.

“How can you tell?”

“Well, we’ve figured out there are probably three different ones by now.” She counts off on her fingers, “The Brute, the Artist, and René. Brute would’ve just torn this guy apart, Artist would’ve drawn patterns with his skin, maybe arranged his limbs differently, while René would’ve made random cuts until he spilled. This…” she gestures to the penis shoved into the victim’s mouth, “this was deliberate; this was symbolism. Judging by the poor woman there, victim was a rapist. This new killer, whoever they are, wants to show the world what it’s done wrong.”

She pauses to think, not noticing Olivier’s pupils have dilated, fixated on her face with rapt attention.

“It’s strange…” she mumbles, hand hovering around the victim’s slashed throat, “this new killer is an amalgamation of all three.”

“Amalgamation?” Olivier’s voice is pitched slightly higher. Breathless. But Bonacieux remains ignorant.

“There’s a beginner’s finesse of Artist with the penis, the anger of Brute with the throat slashes, and here,” she points to the victim’s torso, “the random cuts of René. They want to be like the others, like…like a younger sibling looking up to their older brothers and sisters.”

“Shall we call him Frankenstein’s Monster, then?”

Bonacieux snorts. “Too much of a mouthful for headlines. Little Brother’ll do.”

Olivier well and truly smiles at her. “Perfect.”

She can’t help but think he’s beautiful when he smiles.

(&)

It’s not often the Artist strikes alone; there are usually traces of his other companions, especially now that Little Brother’s joined up with them, evidently still learning the ropes of murdering with them. Yet here Detective Bonacieux stands.

The victim hangs in the middle of the same courtroom he was exonerated. François Grénaud, 42, spousal abuser. A noose has been tied to the ceiling fan, wrapped securely around his throat. His hands are missing, as is half his jaw.

Olivier makes a beeline for her as soon as she arrives. “You need to see this.”

He directs her to the Witness stand, where the victim’s heart is pinned by a knife. Below it, in blood, is the classic fleur-de-lis; above it, however, is a message: _I see you._

There’s a flower wrapped around the blade. Bonacieux’s eyes widen.

“You like botany,” she says to Olivier, “know what this is?”

“A scarlet zinnia,” Olivier replies, “it means ‘constancy’ in the language of flowers.”

Victim is an abuser. Constancy.

Olivier puts his hand on her shoulder. “I think it’s a love letter.”

Bonacieux clenches her trembling fists. Fucking. Psychos.

(&)

Of course Olivier is the obvious choice for the cop-car-outside-the-house routine. Thing is, Bonacieux doesn’t want him to misconstrue anything, sitting out there in a car. They’ve been partners for years, but he’s never actually come over for obvious reasons. It’s only logical she invite him to keep watch inside to avoid any…awkward encounters.

They discuss the case over a cup of coffee in the living room. Olivier’s tense, as if ready for a fight, and she’s just the same, but they affect like they’re just two colleagues having a chat about work. Cameras have been installed around the perimeter, which connects directly to Olivier’s laptop on the coffee table between them; should any stranger slip by, they’ll know.

Her abuser keeps himself to himself. Visitors scare him off when it’s not about him.

“What do you think they meant?” Bonacieux asks after a while.

Olivier takes another sip of coffee, even though it’s probably cold by now. “About what? The message?”

“Yeah, just—what if they didn’t mean ‘I see you’ as a literal thing? Being abused could be a motivation for murder.”

Olivier says nothing for a moment. In that moment, he stares at Bonacieux until she almost feels like Constance. It’s terrifying; could he _know_ —?

The next moment, he’s back to staring coolly at his laptop. “Perhaps we should go through a list of abusers set free four years ago.”

“That’ll take too much time,” Bonacieux argues, “if we could just figure out the killer’s gender, maybe we could narrow it down to a list of _victims_ of abuse instead.”

“Yet, if they didn’t press charges…”

Bonacieux shakes her head, “No, no, these killers once relied on the system. Think about it—René, for instance, used to be in the army. The people responsible for the Savoy Massacre, despite his testimony, were set free until they were killed three years ago. Whoever the Artist is, maybe they filed charges, but they were dropped for whatever reason.”

Her own abuser walks into the kitchen at the same time Olivier’s hunger shows on his face, while she’s busy contemplating her empty mug. Yet, before he can open his mouth, the doorbell rings.

Both officers’ eyes snap to the laptop. There’s nothing at the door.

“Shit,” Olivier mutters, “they’ve been tampered with.”

“How?” Bonacieux hisses, “We installed them ourselves!”

The doorbell rings again.

“I’ll answer it,” Olivier starts, but Bonaxieux shoves him back down.

“No, they’re after me. _I’ll_ get it.”

Her abuser’s face morphs into disgusting anger as he watches Olivier’s eyes brighten and fixate on her as she goes to answer the door, hand on her holster.

No one’s there. But, when she looks down, Bonacieux sees the blood on the porch.

_I understand._

Bonacieux pulls on a glove and carefully picks up the scarlet zinnia. “I need forensics.”

(&)

No fingerprints, of _course_ no fingerprints, and what’s worse is the looks Bonacieux’s getting. If her peers don’t know, they at least suspect.

She scowls and snaps, but nothing changes. She’s no longer free anywhere now.

Instead of consciously thinking about it, she dreams of her abuser as a corpse. This time, there’s a scarlet zinnia growing out of his eye, a hand squeezing her shoulder as she stabs, stabs, _stabs._

(&)

What was that saying? “Third time’s the charm”?

 _Fight back_ is what’s written above the four bodies. The victims hang on meat hooks in a slaughterhouse near headquarters, the message gleaming under the fluorescent lights, smeared on the metal.

All have their hands cut off. All have half their jaws missing. All have their hearts nailed to their foreheads. No signs of forced entry, no signs of struggle. The Artist is nothing if not thorough.

“There’s more,” Olivier says. She looks where he points: a scarlet zinnia’s on the fifth hook in the line.

“This isn’t just a love letter, is it?” Bonacieux sighs.

“At this point, I don’t think so.”

“And what do you think, then?”

Olivier shifts from foot to foot, a rare show of restlessness. “I think…they’re courting you.”

She thinks so too, though she can’t bring herself to say it. Four bodies, one flower on the fifth. The Artist not only wants her to fight back against her abuser, they want her to _kill_ him, as some sort of…what, initiation?

It’s not so much as consciously imagining it that time as remembering her dream and feeling a strange stirring in her chest that has her taking off early.

She just needs more sleep. That’s all.

(&)

Bonacieux comes to a decision when her abuser finally targets her face. Killer thinks they’ve got some romantic connection because they know abuse? Fine. She’ll sever that “connection” at the roots.

She shows up at the nearest hospital and tells the doctor that, yes, her…husband…is abusing her.

She goes to court. Olivier is there for her; he even testifies for her, telling the jury that there was a definite tension about the home, that he’s seen many of her injuries and knows from many past cases that they are indeed from domestic abuse.

Who _isn’t_ there for her? Everyone else.

None of her friends come to court, for starters. Her family does, but they take the defendant’s side, even when she shows some of her bruises and her split lip. She’s a cop, they say. Receiving bruises is what she _does_.

Not even her other colleagues stand up for her, claiming that they’d never seen any bruising, that those messages the killer left could mean anything.

Her abuser is exonerated.

She imagines the whole room washed in blood. That stirring in her chest becomes an unstoppable typhoon.

(&)

She’s silent the entire drive home, ears numb to her abuser’s threats, his wicked laughter. Vaguely she wonders if this is how the Artist felt when the courts failed them. This…emptiness, this hopelessness. This resignation. Is this how they decided to…?

He sends her to the floor that night, while she’s waiting for water to boil. Calls her a whore. Accuses her of cheating on him with Olivier. Kicks her, slaps her, beats her—

The storm breaks, and so does she.

An animal’s roar rips past her lips; suddenly her abuser’s on the floor instead, gaping up at her like a fish out of water. Water—that’s a _brilliant_ idea.

Snatching the pot from the stove, she listens with savage glee to his pleas when he figures out what she intends. She breaks his kneecap with practiced ease, just to be sure, then pours the scalding water all over his face.

He screams, and she laughs—gasping, screeching, _liberating_ laughs.

Next, she grabs her kitchen knife. Time to let go of some of that pent up aggression. It’s only healthy, after all.

She settles her knees on either side of his ribs, raises the knife in both hands. Blood spurts all over her new blouse, sticking to her curls, covering her reopened lip, and she laughs and laughs and laughs, tearing into the bastard’s body like a wolf on her prey.

Trembling with delight, she picks up the phone and dials Olivier.

“I did it,” she giggles.

 _“…what did you do?”_ he asks. Cautious, like she did something she wasn’t supposed to.

“He’s gone! I’m free! I’m _free_!”

A sharp intake of breath. _“Stay where you are, Constance. I’ll be there in ten.”_

She goes back to stabbing him for another minute, just because she _can_. Afterwards, though, she finds she’s exhausted, as if she’s just solved a long case.

Before collapsing onto her couch, she scrubs across the wall _WE SURVIVED_ in his blood.

She wakes surrounded by unfeeling white.

(&)

A week feels like an eternity Inside, especially when you’re strapped to a lumpy cot and force-fed pills. She screams, thrashes, but all they do is administer more drugs, drugs-drugs-drugs.

Two weeks into her stay at wherever they sent her, she stares dully at the ceiling of her room, a few pounds lighter and dark circles prominent under her eyes. Her hair’s a mess of dirty curls, the rest of her not much better.

It’s to this state Olivier arrives. She’s not sure of the time, but outside her tiny barred window there’s no light, which has to mean visiting hours are over. Further, he’s not in his usual immaculate coat, button up, and pants—his jacket’s a dark green, almost black, with a black shirt underneath and messy pants that have faded stains on them.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says in lieu of greeting. “You know me. I like to do things properly.”

She blinks slowly at him.

He frowns. “I should have warned you, but I wanted you to see for yourself that the only justice you can rely on in this world comes from your own hand.”

Her restraints are undone. She backs away from him, eyes widening.

“What are you talking about?” she whispers, even though—

“You know precisely what I’m talking about, Constance,” he replies, reaching into his jacket pocket. “You’re always so clever. Resourceful. I was going to let you discover the truth, but you went to the courts instead.”

When his hand emerges, there is the scarlet zinnia, a patch of color amidst the black and white.

“I got your note. You outdid yourself.”

He sounds so _proud_ , so…fond (loving).

With trembling fingers, she takes the flower, holding it to her chest. “So…the whole time…”

“Yes. I apologize for the deception; you must understand why my identity had to be kept secret. An officer of the law can’t be running around doing his job, now can he?” Laughter bubbles up her throat, and his lip curls. “If you wish, I’ll reveal myself for what I am. Obviously I can’t abandon the others, but I’ll get myself kicked off the force. It’ll be dull without you there anyway.”

She swallows. “You’re going to help me escape.” he nods. “And…then what?”

“You passed the test. If you’re so inclined, you have a family that’s quite eager to meet you.”

“Family.” She no longer knows the meaning of that word.

“What did we call them? The Brute, the Little Brother, René?”

“The Artist,” she murmurs.

Another curl of the lip. “I prefer Athos. ‘The Artist’ sounds ridiculous. As for Olivier, he died a long time ago.”

There’s a story behind his words. She’ll ask later. Now, he reaches for her hand, and she takes it, allowing him to drape his other arm around her shoulders.

Together, they slowly make their way to the door.

The hallway is a sea of red. Constance gasps, fingers gripping her flower as she takes it all in. Guts spilled everywhere, intestines unraveled from the entrance to the ward to the far end, as if the killers were trying to see how long they actually were. Other intestines were used to hang other body parts from the ceiling, a leg almost brushing against Constance’s head as they leave her room. The nurses who’d administered the drugs into her system have been cut in half from head to groin, along with her orderlies and doctors, their halves lining the floor as if creating a guided path. At the heads of each of them, more body parts are pinned all the way up to the ceiling, and that’s when she realizes—it’s all decoration. For _her_.

Among the dead, two moving bodies are shucked up against the wall. Constance watches, entranced, as a young man no older than twenty-two wraps all four of his limbs around another, huge man of roughly early thirties or late twenties. The first’s mouth is open around a moan, bloodied knife hanging almost limply in his likewise stained hand, while the second chuckles, eyes bright, nuzzling their foreheads together.

She looks down, and almost chokes. The younger is fucking himself on a severed hand.

“D’Artagnan, Porthos,” Oli—Athos calls, tone reminiscent of an exasperated older brother.

“Don’t worry Athos,” replies another voice behind Constance, “I’m all finished. You must be Constance!”

She cranes her neck, and there’s René, hair a couple inches longer than in his pictures, once white shirt drenched in blood.

“Might I say,” he says, taking her hand and kissing it, “it is a pleasure to meet the woman who tamed Athos.”

“Tamed?” she murmurs as Athos huffs quietly.

“Oh yes,” says René, smirking now, “you see, Athos here is our leader—noble, infallible, all that. But _you_ —you, wonderful woman, you turned him into a romantic idiot! I’m sure he’d get down on his knees if you asked—”

“That’s quite enough, Aramis,” Athos firmly interrupts. “She’s not been on her feet for two weeks. Make yourself useful and get the chair.”

Aramis laughs, yet he obeys and retrieves a nearby wheelchair. Constance wants to insist that she doesn’t need it, but her quaking knees convince her otherwise. Nevertheless, she insists on getting herself into it alone.

“So, you’re called Aramis?” she says.

Aramis beams. “Yes I am. And that giant over there’s called Porthos, and that little deviant is D’Artagnan.”

Constance can’t help it. “I don’t think you’ve got the right to call anyone a deviant, Monsieur.”

Athos makes a noise that almost sounds like a snort. Aramis, on the other hand, presses a hand to his heart.

“You wound me, Mademoiselle!” he cries, “Yet, I suppose I can’t deny it.”

“Damn right you can’t,” growls Porthos.

“I hate to rush you, but Constance has seen her gift,” Athos interjects. He receives an irritated “shuddup ‘m almost there” from D’Artagnan.

Aramis touches Constance’s shoulder. “Do you like it, by the way? We all pitched in, but it was obviously Athos’ design.” he pokes a hanging limb, sending it swinging.

Constance blinks slowly, looking around at the hallway again. “It’s…I don’t know how to describe it. I do like it, though.”

She used to be disgusted by this. Two weeks ago, she would’ve forced herself to stand and cuff them all on the spot. But now she—she _sees_. She understands. She fought back. And now. Now she can enjoy her reward.

She twirls her flower in her lap, blushing like the hopeful school girl she once was. Athos did this, all of this, for her. Sat beside her while she puzzled through, was planning this big reveal, but she pushed it ahead. He came through anyway.

Quickly, before she can change her mind, she pulls Athos down by his collar and kisses him on the cheek. Aramis giggles like a loon as Athos just—stands there, blinking.

“I hope you live somewhere nice,” she says, settling into her chair.

“Yes,” Athos answers faintly. Aramis laughs harder.

Suddenly, D’Artagnan yells Porthos’ name and jerks in his partner’s arms. Porthos tucks him against his shoulder, whispering endearing nonsense as he rides out his orgasm.

Athos regains himself and says dryly, “If you’re both quite finished?”

D’Artagnan sighs, feet slipping back to the floor. “Where’d my pants go?”

Although she’s still dizzy from all this excitement, Constance still finds said pants before the rest of them. Porthos probably tossed them, since they’re clear across the hall and draped over one of the severed corpses.

She points, ignoring the irksome tremble in her arm. “Are those them?”

“Damn it, Porthos!” D’Artagnan pouts, “Those were brand new!”

Porthos grins, unapologetic. “Saved your precious briefs, didn’t I? Not my fault you’re anal about your clothes.”

Aramis obligingly tosses both jeans and briefs over. After hastily dressing, D’Artagnan shakes Constance’s hand as if he hadn’t just come in front of her on a severed hand. His smile is boyish and bright, and it’s…well, it’s kind of adorable, actually.

Porthos is next, big grin all genuine and welcoming. Like Aramis, he commends Constance on “taming” Athos, adding that it was a long time coming. She’s worked with him long enough that she can _feel_ Athos’ glower behind her back.

Unless—“Wait. When we worked together, did you—”

Of course he understands. “I only disguised what I did outside of the office. The rest was true; you have my word.”

She can tell when someone’s lying—she’s too experienced in her field not to know. Still, she _has_ been locked up.

Well, some of the best things are played by ear. After all, she did write him back; the least she can do is follow where this is going, if not for him then for herself.

So she says, “Alright. Get me out of here.”

“As you wish.”

When they burn the place to the ground, she lights the match.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. More to come.


End file.
